


And See Where the Melody Goes

by OldDVS



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After Greg's Divorece, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Music, mostly pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldDVS/pseuds/OldDVS
Summary: Gregory Lestrade is stuck at a boring party.  Mycroft Holmes is stuck at the same boring party.  They talk a bit, and after that they really aren't mingling the way they should be.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 5
Kudos: 118





	And See Where the Melody Goes

Gregory Lestrade was surprised when he looked up and saw Mycroft Holmes walking towards him, glass in hand. The occasion called for one his nice suits, but Greg rather thought the man had chosen this particular suit for a specific reason. It drew the eye just a little more than the man's usual attire. He wondered what was up.

Then again, what was the man doing at this very boring affair at all? Greg himself was a mingling in a social sphere a bit above his usual, but there was no denying that for Mycroft Holmes, it was probably not at all his usual venue. Way too down the ladder. He shouldn't have time for this type of see-and-be-seen-but-rather-pointless gathering. Well, maybe something was afoot. Undercover, so to speak. That might be interesting. He'd have to be careful, not muck it up for Holmes. Whatever 'it' was.

“Mr. Holmes! Nice to see you,” Greg said as the elegant man stopped precisely in front of him. He felt those keen grey eyes sweep over him.

“And you, Detective Inspector. Are you enjoying the party?” 

Greg looked left and right, then leaned forward and said in a low voice, “No. You?”

Mycroft let a wintry smile touch his lips and said, equally softly, and with his glass at his lips so they could not be seen by anyone adept at lip reading said, “No. Ghastly, isn't it?”

“Don't know as I'd go that far,” Greg said, but inside he agreed totally. “Not a lively affair, is it?”

“No. But there have been some unfortunate disasters behind the scenes. No doubt the host and hostess are highly displeased.”

“Looks calm enough,” Greg protested, looking out over the crowd of about a hundred and fifty people spread out over three large rooms. Little conversational groups here and there, standing or taking advantage of the dusky pink sofas and chairs. The chandelier poured flattering golden light over the men and women in their formal clothing. 

“Too calm to be a success. The caterer was given the wrong information—actually on the contract so not her fault--and so has not brought enough of...everything. So the drinks are being rationed. The quartet which was to provide the music are all in hospital getting emergency care, as their taxi had an unfortunate encounter with a lorry, and several of the, shall we say more special guests? declined at the last minute.”

“Disaster all the way around, then?” Greg lifted his own glass and allowed himself a sip. He was rationing himself to one sip every ten minutes, even before the news that more would not be forthcoming when he needed it. Couldn't afford ply his boredom with alcohol. Not with one of the big bosses in attendance. 

“Quite.”

The dry delivery caught Greg by surprise and he grinned. Then a frown took over and Holmes glanced around. “The man approaching?”

“Greg sighed. “One of my superiors, you might say. I think he's grooming me to take over this sort of thing.”

“Ah, yes. I noticed the pattern. Talk to one person he knows, then one person he doesn't know, then back to Gregory Lestrade. Five minutes each, almost to the minute. And he expects you to do the same?”

“I'm supposed to mingle. Since I know exactly four people here, one of whom is you and the other one him, I've fallen down a little in his regard.”

“Has he given you any instruction? Has he stated any particular goal to be achieved by these interactions?”

Greg gave him a speaking look because there was no time to answer. His superior had arrived and was looking at him expectantly. Greg took a fortifying sip from his glass. Then he said, “Mr. Holmes, do you know Mr. Langford?” He would have done a more complete introduction but this one was a little tricky. One was supposed to introduce the more important person first and Mycroft was undoubtedly that, but did Langford think so, since he was Greg's superior at the Yard? And what title did he use for Mycroft? And so he left off both titles and hoped for the best.

Holmes said, “Ah, Mr. Langford, I believe you are with Scotland Yard.” He didn't make it a question. “I understand congratulations are in order? Your engagement,” he added when the man looked puzzled. 

“Well, yes, but how did you know? It was only last night!” Langford looked astonished. Greg reflected that Holmes were Holmes.

“One must never discount the power of interesting gossip,” Mycroft informed him solemnly. “I heard it from my secretary.”

Now, that was probably an out and our lie. Greg wondered where this was going. “Who probably heard it from mine,” Langford laughed. “The woman knows everything.” And tells everything, was implied. Greg frowned. Bad form to denigrate your co-workers or subordinates. Bad strategy to give away a weakness in your organization. His estimation of the man went down a few notches. 

Holmes spread his fingers in a 'what-can-one-do' gesture looked expectant. 

Langford went on, “Your name sounds familiar. Are you with May & Crocklin?”

“No, no, nothing so rarefied. Department for Transportation,” he explained. 

“Keep the trains running on time, then?” Langford asked.

“Usually.” 

The one word reply made Langford laugh. Greg tried not to cringe. If this was the level of conversation the man was handing out in his five minute exchanges, then no wonder the party was heading for the rocks. Everyone was just trying to put in enough time to make a dignified retreat. He watched Mycroft maneuver the man through a few more banal exchanges and send him on to his next rendezvous. 

When he was safely gone, Greg said, “Department for Transportation?”

“I have an office there.”

“I bet you do. Did you get sent here to reinforce that cover?” 

“Oh, no. I got sent here as punishment.” 

It was said with a flat delivery that made Greg's eyes go wide. “You must have been a very naughty boy.”

He surprised a real laugh out of the Holmes. Greg was quite proud of himself for that.

“I made mistakes. I usually don't,” Holmes admitted, his glass at his mouth again. “But I knew quite well when I was invited that if I did not go, unpleasant repercussions would ensue. I am using the time to reestablish myself as a team player,” he said, obliquely. “I am also presenting myself as more approachable. Social. Inoffensive.”

“Now that might be...well, not easy anyway.”

“Ah.”

After a moment, Greg sighed. “I suppose I should go...mingle.”

“You could. Or you could join me in my moment of rebellion.”

Greg lifted an eyebrow. “A moment of rebellion?” he echoed.

“I am considering one, yes. I was told to be sure that I was seen, that I have proof that I was not elsewhere tonight. They did not say how I was to do this.”

“What, exactly are you considering?”

Mycroft tilted his head. Greg looked that way, but all he could see is the corner set up for the musicians. Piano. Drum set. Three music stands. He frowned.

“Your moment of rebellion includes a piano?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. In my younger days, mine included a guitar.” 

“But not drums?” Mycroft nodded towards the instruments again.

“Fooled around on other instruments, of course,” he admitted. Played one gig filling in on the drums when their drummer managed to fall down the steps ten minutes before they were to go on. He'd faked it fairly well, but that was twenty-five years ago. And much much more alcohol had been involved. 

“What else does it get you?” he wondered, looking over at the other man.

“Oh, several things. I will no longer have to make inane small talk tonight, for example.”

“Talked me into it,” Greg said. He really needed a fresh drink, but none seemed on offer, no waiters circulating through the crowd. He looked around, put his glass down on the nearest table and followed Holmes over to the piano. While Mycroft inspected the instrument, Greg looked over the drums. 

No drumsticks. A further search turned up a pair of brushes tucked in a case. Retractable, even. Well used. He balanced them in his hand. They felt good. He looked over at Holmes, who has slid onto the bench. There was no sheet music, but Holmes probably didn't need any.

Holmes looked over at him. “Jazz, I think, and perhaps some modified classic rock. We shall be providing background music, not a performance.”

Greg slid onto the stool behind the drum set. “Got it.” He adjusted the brushes, not that he knew what he was doing. Holmes had a light touch on the keys, the sound was good. Greg concentrated on providing a reliable beat, letting Holmes do the fancy stuff. 

The man was talented. His transitions were smooth, his improvisation was creative. Several guests drifted closer, an equal number moved away from the music. Langford came and stared at the two of them, drink in hand, a puzzled look on his face. Greg decided the man was unhappy at being forced to break his pattern, that without Greg to speak with he had to chat with more strangers. 

Greg tried out a few soft hits on the cymbals, saw the slight nod from Holmes. They were slowly adjusting to each other, and the music got better. It felt good. Greg let himself flow into it, to enjoy it rather than worry about it.

After forty-five minutes, a server materialized beside them and put down drinks within reaching distance. Greg nodded his thanks, but Holmes didn't seem to have noticed. Each half hour the drink was refreshed, which was more than the general crowd was getting. On the other hand, those guests were getting canapes and other nibbles which had not come their way.

Greg became comfortable enough to let his eyes sometimes drift into the crowd. The party had definitely improved. People looked more lively, anyway, were laughing more. Sometimes Greg's gaze lingered on the piano, watching those clever fingers glide over the keys with silky ease.

They had played just exactly two hours when Holmes, with a light flourish, finished off the piece and let his hands fall still. Greg was only a beat behind him. His back was sore from sitting so long on the stool. He was very careful as he stood up. Holmes very carefully folded down the fallboard and stood up also. They didn't say anything to each other as they moved away from the instruments, their drinks in hand.

“That was actually fun,” Greg observed as they eased towards the wall. 

“Quite the most enjoyable part of the evening,” Holmes agreed. 

“Here's the most important question,” Greg said. “Have we put in enough time so that we can leave now?”

“Perhaps. Manners say we should stay long enough for our hosts to find up and express thanks, genuine or not, for the entertainment. If they don't find us within a quarter of an hour, we should be free to leave.”

They stood by the wall, finishing the drinks. Several people paused to express appreciation for the music, none of them staying for than a minute. Still, it counted as mingling, didn't it?

A young woman in a gown whose shade was not at all of the Pantone palette of the year—or even last year, introduced herself as Anna Wood, thanked them prettily on behalf of her parents, and left as soon as she could.

“Ah. The daughter. They did not know what to make of it,” Holmes commented.

“Well, who does? You're probably the person of highest status here, even if half of them don't know it. I'm probably the lowest. It was odd enough that we decided to play the music, but that difference in us probably confused them.” 

“None of them have the background to make that sort of assessment about us. That you know as much as you do about that is a bit of a surprise to me, but your assessment of your own status is flawed. And for that mater, this evening you have changed your status.” Holmes took a small sip of his drink, which time and melting ice had reduced mostly water. He didn't appear to notice. “That I asked you at all has put you on the radar of several people. I hope it will not cause you difficulty.”

“Don't see why it should.”

“Assumption might be made. We played as if we had done so before.”

“You were incredibly easy to follow. That lift of your finger when you were about to change tempo. Really useful.”

Holmes nodded his acceptance of the praise. “If you are assumed to be an acquaintance of mine, as I said, certain assumptions might be made.”

Lestrade knew his confusion was on his face. 

“For example, they might feel I am grooming you for some position or favor. Or they might assume I have a romantic interest in you.” He waited a beat and said, “I am assumed to be gay.” He said it with his glass up to his face again, and took a sip right after the words left his mouth.

Greg said, before he could think, “Are you?”

“Bisexual...perhaps, is the most accurate term.”

And wasn't that vague. Greg looked around. There were some things he didn't talk about in public.

Holmes was continuing. “They might make even more assumptions if they knew that I am inviting you out for a late night supper. You deserve at least a meal for your contribution to the evening.”

“Food sounds good,” Greg heard himself say.

“Then let us begin the process of making our way to the door. I have one more person I need to see briefly, and then I will seek out our hosts and make my farewells. Perhaps you can find Mr. Langford for your own last interaction, also say your formal good-bye, and then join me?”

“On the steps or in a discreet black car?” Greg asked.

“Oh, the car. Then we shall decide where to go.”

“Yes, I...okay.” They parted, and Greg spent a frustrating amount of time confirming that Langford had escaped at some point. Since the first person he came across in his search for the hosts was their daughter, he said his thank-you-lovely-party to her and ducked out.

The car was waiting, and the driver had the door open as he approached. Greg slid in and found a welcome in the lovely comfortable seat and warm enveloping air. Holmes didn't look inpatient, thank god. The car glided forward.

“There is a choice. Do you wish to go to a place where we will be noticed, or not noticed.” Seeing Greg's hesitation he said, “If one is noticed at a place one goes to avoid notice, there is usually as much notice as if you did not.”

“I was actually thinking of somewhere comfortable with decent food.”

Which is how they found themselves in an upscale pub with huge beef sandwiches in front of them I was, in fact, the best beef sandwich he had ever had, and he didn't say a word until he had reduced it to a pile of crumbs and a scrap of green stuff that was not lettuce. Holmes, he noticed, managed the same result, although with smaller bites and occasional dainty dabs at this lips with a napkin. 

“I did not know,” Greg said, “that I was that hungry.”

Holmes nodded agreement, and took a sip of his sparkling water. The same was in front of Greg. He hadn't been confident enough to order beer or ale, as he had recognized not a single one of the offerings on the fancy card. 

At some point over the meal they became Greg and Mycroft, and argued about rock and roll legends and didn't change each others mind. Then they had a polite argument about payment which Greg lost, and a few minutes later they were climbing again into the back of the long black car. It was after midnight. Greg watched as his companion flicked a switch, and then another, which raised a second, darkened glass panel between them and the driver. 

Hum. He looked at Mycroft inquiringly.

The man said, “I'm giving the impression that my social life includes private moments I don't want to share.” He didn't look directly at Greg as he said it.

Greg looked at the elegant figure leaning casually against the fine leather of the seat and said, “Do you want it to?”

Their eyes met. Mycroft Holmes hesitated just a moment, but then said, “Yes.”

So Greg boldly leaned forward and put his lips on Mycroft's prim mouth and it was like making music together. Unexpectedly easy, and much more beautiful than he had ever thought it could be. His heart was drumming in his chest as those long fingers slid into his hair and then cupped the back of his head. He gave in to the moment even as he wondered how far they would take it. Mycroft's mouth opened under his and he stopped thinking and wrapped his arms around that long body, bringing them closer. Mycroft was brilliant at improvisation, after all, and Greg was willing to follow his lead. See where it would go. Those fingers....


End file.
